Down Under

The next two days pass in a hazy rhythm. Hermione wakes each morning before the sun and extracts herself from her bedsheet stranglehold. She showers and dresses before traipsing down to the lobby, where George invariably waits for her. They talk and eat breakfast and both slowly shuck off the cloak of horrors that envelops them in the night. At nine o’clock, they apparate to the library and spend the day reading through Sydney newspapers, until it is time to eat dinner and go back to their respective hotel rooms. 

On the third day, he surprises her. 

Hermione pulls herself from her bed, rubbing her eyes to erase the image of Remus Lupin’s motionless face. She showers and dresses, taking her daily inventory of the shadows beneath her eyes and the scars that decorate her body. Before she tugs on her shirt she glances down at her arm, runs the pad of her finger over the smooth skin where the word Mudblood shines as though cast in moonlight. It is the one scar that she knows time will not help to fade. 

Clothes straightened and hair pulled back, she slings the knapsack over her shoulder and makes her way down to the lobby. She wonders if she will find the cheerful George smiling and waiting to tease her, or the other George who sometimes peers through a mask at the edges of daylight. The other George who sits quietly, expressionless, deaf to the world around him. 

Hermione has not yet learned how to talk to the other George, how to help him. She hopes that when she gets to the lobby she will find the cheerful George who is eager to joke with her and talk about funny headlines they have found in the newspaper. She feels her stomach twist with guilt for hoping such a thing.

Selfish, selfish, selfish. 

George sits in an armchair near the lobby door, a book open in his lap and a roll of parchment spread over the coffee table in front of him. He looks up as Hermione’s footsteps echo through the empty space. 

“Morning,” he greets her. 

“Good morning.” Hermione drops into the chair beside him and leans over the side to peer at the parchment on the table. “What are you doing?”

“Research.” George adjusts the parchment so Hermione can read it. She squints and scans what look like scrawled notes on generative memory charms. She frowns and looks back to George. 

“I was thinking about what you said the other night,” he says in a low voice, leaning close as he talks even though there is nobody in the lobby to overhear them. “About figuring out how to undo the memory charm. I have a few books with me we used when we were working on developing our daydream charms. The application is different, but the fundamental magic is similar to implanting a memory in someone’s head, and I thought there might be something in here that could help.” 

Hermione stares at him, lungs pinching. “You don’t have to do that,” she croaks. 

George shrugs. “I told you I’m here to help you. And I actually can do more than fetch sandwiches and bring tea.” 

Hermione’s mouth presses into a tight smile. “Don’t forget about chatting up librarians.”

“Of course not.” He shakes his head sagely. “That’s the most important job at all.” 

He pauses and then looks up, catching her eye. “I really do want to help you, though. With finding your parents. And reversing the spell.”

Hermione swallows and tucks a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “What have you found so far?”

“Not very much.” George shifts and rotates the book so the text faces Hermione. “I started with just re-reading the section on generative spells since I’ve honestly forgotten most of it, and I won’t be much help to you if you constantly have to explain the basic concepts to me.”

Hermione nods and glances back to the parchment, oddly touched by the obvious effort George has put into helping her. “And you think there might be something in here that will help us figure out how to undo the charms?”

“There should be.” George frowns and flips a page. “I remember there being an explanation of ceasing complex memory charms. I just don’t remember exactly which section we found it in.”

“What’s the book?” Hermione leans over the arm of the chair and cranes her neck. 

George flips the book closed so she can see the cover, his thumb stuck between the pages to mark his spot.

Obliviation Observed: Unforgettable Memory Magic and Cerebral Sorcery by Eris Lethe. 

“I don’t think I’ve read this one,” Hermione admits, biting the inside of her cheek as George reopens the book. 

“I don’t think they would have it in the Hogwarts library,” George says.  “We had to special order it through Flourish and Blotts. It was a right pain in the arse.” 

He lifts the open book and holds it out in offering. Hermione takes it eagerly, bending to better see the tiny inked words. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you had this earlier?” She asks, trying to temper the accusatory note in her voice. “I could have used this before we even got here.” 

George frowns at her. “I didn’t realize you didn’t know how you were going to reverse the charm.”

Hermione chews her lip and ducks her head to continue reading without giving George a reply. 

“This looks like it will be useful,” she says at last, looking up from the page. “Did you bring other books as well?”

George nods and gestures to the bag sitting beside his feet. “I have a few more in there.” 

“Can I see them?”

“Sure.” George ducks down and rummages through the bag for a moment before emerging with two thick leather bound volumes. 

“These ones are available at the Hogwarts library,” he says as he hands them to Hermione. “So I’m guessing you’ve seen them before.” 

Hermione balances Obliviation Observed on the arm of her chair and takes the two books from George. She glances down at the covers and nods. “I’ve read these,” she murmurs, gingerly opening the cover of the first book. “But I didn’t bring them with me. It will be helpful to read them again.” 

“You can take those for now if you’d like.” George shifts in his seat and picks up Obliviation Observed. “I’m going to continue with this one.”

“Thanks.” Hermione settles into the seat cushion and opens the book in her lap, scanning the table of contents to decide where to begin. 

“I’ll let you know if I find anything,” he continues, flipping idly through the pages. “Or if I remember which part we used when we had some problems with the patented daydreams.” 

“What help did you need with the daydream charms, exactly?” Hermione asks.

George grimaces. “We had a hard time figuring out how to make them stop.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like the worst problem to have.” 

George shakes his head. “It’s terrible. We figured out pretty quickly that daydreams are only enjoyable if they’re short and if the person experiencing them has some level of control over what they’re seeing. Otherwise you’re just trapped in your head, forced to watch an implanted scene with no way of returning to reality.” 

Hermione shudders, remembering Harry’s description of the visions he used to have of the goings-on within Voldemort’s mind. 

George glances sideways at her. “It took us a while to make it so the daydreams could be influenced by the person using them and were automatically cut off at half an hour.”

“And you figured out how to do that from this book?” 

“It gave us a good start. I thought about it since you mentioned implanted memories altering a person’s personal narrative.”

“It’s a good idea.” Hermione runs a hand over her hair and checks her watch. “And we still have over an hour until breakfast starts.” 

“So we can start our day with a good swot session,” George laughs. “My mother would be so proud.” 

Hermione adjusts the book in her hands, flipping to a section on identity-altering memory charms. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees George trace his finger across the page of his book, his mouth moving soundlessly as he reads.

A rush of affection wells in her, and she smiles as turns the page. 

***

The next two days pass with the same cadence: rise, shake off the nightmares, read in the lobby until nine o’clock, spend the day reading newspapers in the library, drift into fuzzy half-consciousness and wait out the night. 

Sunday morning they sit in the hotel lobby until ten o’clock, on account of the library’s shortened weekend hours. Hermione scratches notes in her muggle notebook, and George scrawls on the last remaining space of his parchment roll. 

At ten o’clock they mark their pages and return the books to George’s bag before making their way back to the public library. 

A librarian, not Marjorie but a young woman with a pointed nose and dark eyes, waves to them from behind the reference desk. Hermione and George call out a greeting as they walk past. The library staff, at first rather baffled by the odd pair of English researchers spending their days reading through the local newspapers, have rapidly become kindly fixtures in Hermione’s days. They sit on the periphery of her work, waiting patiently to spring into action and help her find a missing issue of The Daily Telegraph or fetch another two weeks worth of The Morning Herald. 

She and George stride to the back of the main floor and find the small table thankfully unoccupied. George drops into one of the seats and holds his hand out. Hermione slides the knapsack off her shoulder and hands it over. 

“What date did you leave off at?” she asks. 

“October 30th,” he says. 

Hermione nods and weaves through the bookshelves, cutting the now familiar path to the reference desk. The librarian takes her to the media room and helps her assemble a stack of newspapers which Hermione quickly drops into a crate. She thanks the librarian, heaves the crate onto her hip, and makes her way back to George.  

They pass the morning quietly, each buried in a pile of news. Hermione tries to keep herself focused, her back straight and eyes skimming line after line of minuscule text for any mention of Wendell or Monica Wilkins. 

The first two days of reading newspapers she had enjoyed the stories found in their pages, but now they seem to run together. Each issue seems to be a never-ending roll of community events, domestic tragedies involving small children, and vaguely nihilistic columns detailing the failures of the local government. Hermione sighs as she flips the page forcefully. The corner of the paper flips up and razes the side of her index finger. 

Hermione lets out a soft cry at the unexpected sting, and pulls her hand away from the paper as a thin stream of red wells up and floods over the sliced skin. 

“Alright?” George asks, glancing at her over the top of his own newspaper. 

“Paper cut,” Hermione mumbles, bringing the finger to her mouth. “I’ll go to the front and see if they have a bandage.”

George sets his paper down in front of him before twisting in his seat, observing the deserted space around them. “Let me see,” he says, turning back to face Hermione and holding out his hand. 

Hermione frowns, cradling her finger in her left hand. “It’s just a cut,” she says. “A bandage will be fine.” 

“We can heal it right here.” George rolls his eyes. “And then you don’t need to fuss with a bandage or deal with blood getting on any of these precious newspapers.” 

Hermione purses her lips and glances to the side. 

“There’s nobody here to see,” George drawls. “We’re in no danger of breaking any secrecy laws.”

“I can heal it myself, then.” Hermione bends to retrieve her knapsack from the ground, fumbling to grab her wand with her left hand. 

“Granger, just let me see the cut,” George sighs. “It’ll be easier for me to do it than for you to try and do the wandwork left handed.” 

“You know how to heal this?” Hermione raises her eyebrows and grudgingly holds her hand out. 

George takes her hand lightly in his, turning her finger over and observing the laceration. 

“This? Easily.” Still holding her hand in his, George takes out his wand. With one last glance over his shoulder, he places the tip of his wand on her finger and slowly guides it along the split skin, murmuring an incantation under his breath. 

Hermione feels the burn and then the itch as the skin knits itself back together. She watches the seam in her skin form a white scar, then melt away into the pink flesh. George siphons off the remaining blood before releasing her. 

“Thanks,” Hermione mutters, tucking her hands into her lap. “Though I really would have been able to do that myself.” 

George stuffs his wand back into his bag and shrugs. “I never doubted that. It’s just easier to do healing charms on someone else than to do them on yourself.”

Hermione turns her hand over, running a finger absently against the spot where the paper cut had been. “I’m guessing you learned healing spells because you were testing products on yourselves?”

George gives a tight smile. “It got to the point Mum was getting worried when we showed up for dinner with black eyes and split lips every other day, so we needed to be able to patch up at least basic injuries.”

Hermione nods and folds her hands together. “Did you have a book you used for that?” 

George shrugs again, looking down at his newspaper. “A lot of it we learned from Mum’s books. She’s got loads of household spell books lying around. There were a few injuries that were—er—more complicated. With those we just had to try different things and figure it out.” 

Hermione fights a smile. “What constitutes a more complicated injury for you?”

George pauses and eyes her for a moment. “It all turned out alright,” he says slowly. 

Hermione’s eyebrows shoot towards her hairline. “I’m going to regret asking this, aren’t I?”

“Probably.” George shrugs. “But you asked, so now you have to hear the answer. You remember the puking pastilles?” 

Hermione rolls her eyes, thinking back to the rows she had had with the twins in the Gryffindor common room over their testing strategy for that particular product. “How could I forget about those?” 

“Well when we were first developing them we had a spot of trouble.” George leans back in his seat, his face taking on a faraway look. “I’d been the one testing that batch and I began vomiting buckets of blood. Couldn’t stop, no matter what we tried. We almost gave in and went to St. Mungo’s.” 

Hermione’s eyes widen. “What did you do?” 

“We had to do some diagnostic charms,” George says. “It turned out the charm we had used on the pastilles had eroded some of my stomach lining which is why the blood was coming up. So we had to repair that and then make sure the blood hadn’t caused any further damage in my chest or throat.”

Hermione blinks, turning this story over in her mind. “You learned how to do a complex medical diagnostic spell, repaired your intestinal lining, and cleared blood from your esophagus all without any oversight from a professional?” 

George pauses, mouth slightly open. “More or less,” he says after a beat. 

Hermione shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.” 

George’s face breaks into a smile. “I’d hope a little of both.” 

Hermione smiles back at him, shaking her head again as she picks up her newspaper. “Alright. Consider me both impressed and horrified by your ability to quickly learn complex healing magic at home rather than seeking qualified medical help like a reasonable person.” 

George snorts. “Like you never had to improvise with some healing magic last year while you were on the run with Harry and Ron?” 

Hermione bites her lip, her mind flipping back to the image of Ron lying on the ground in the forest, arm a bloody mess after they barely escaped the Ministry of Magic. “Some. Though I tried to keep the improvising to a minimum.” 

Her eyes flick up to meet George’s. “I tried to read as much as I could on magical healing before we left so I wouldn’t be taken by surprise.” 

George nods, his smile softening as he shakes out his newspaper and drops his eyes. “I’d expect nothing less.” 

***

The afternoon stretches and bends like shadows in twilight. Hermione reads through page after page of newsprint, the rustling of paper across the table telling her that George does the same. 

As the sun out the window makes its slow descent back to the earth, Hermione realizes she has not heard the shuffle of newspaper in several minutes. She glances up and sees George, face slack and the paper in his hands sinking limply towards the table. 

“George?” Hermione sets her own paper down and cranes her neck. “Did you find something?” 

He shakes his head wordlessly. 

When it becomes clear George is not going to say anything or move the paper so she can read it, Hermione gets out of her seat and steps around the table to stand over his shoulder. She bends and squints at a feature in the Human Interest section of The Daily Telegraph. 

The top half of the page is dominated by a grainy photograph showing two small boys with identical dimpled smiles and short dark hair holding up a knapsack dotted with what looked like large pins displaying cartoon drawings and quippy messages. 

Huntsville Twins’ Business Soars, the headline above the photo declares. Hermione scans the article, a profile on the nine-year-old twins Jeffrey and David who had begun making and selling decorative bag pins to their schoolmates which had expanded into a multi-city business bringing in over $25,000 that year. 

Hermione’s eyes slide back to George who continues staring at the photo, expression far away. She doesn’t say anything, merely reaches over him and gently tugs the newspaper from his fingers. 

George doesn’t protest, but leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. 

“I suppose precocious twins pop up on every continent,” he says blandly as Hermione folds the newspaper back into its original state and drops it into the crate. 

“Let’s take a walk,” Hermione says in response, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. George turns and looks at her, eyebrow raised. 

“We’ve been here for a while,” Hermione continues. “And we’ve barely seen any of the library except for the media room and this little corner. Let’s give ourselves a break and see what else is here.” 

George pauses for a moment, hand once again rumpling his hair. Finally he gives a silent nod and gets to his feet. 

Hermione picks up their knapsacks from the ground and hands them to George before turning back to the table. She dumps the newspapers into the crate unceremoniously before taking out her wand and muttering a hurried incantation, watching the papers straighten and organize themselves. 

The table cleared, Hermione picks up the crate and meanders across the library, George beside her. They return the newspapers to the reference desk. Hermione looks around the building, wondering where they ought to go first. 

“Are you looking for something?” The librarian asks, peering at Hermione over the computer monitor. 

“We were just wondering what volumes are available here,” Hermione says. “We’ve hardly seen anything except the media room.” 

“Oh, we have a wonderful collection at this branch you can browse,” the librarian smiles. “You’ll find adult fiction and nonfiction upstairs by the cafe. And if you’re interested, we have a renowned children’s collection downstairs.” 

Hermione thanks the librarian and takes George by the arm, tugging him up the stairs. 

The nonfiction section is housed on squat shelves that come up to Hermione’s hip. Creased paperbacks detailing financial strategies and glossy manuals promising to teach the reader computer science in sixty days are shelved with a care completely unlike the haphazard organization of the Hogwarts library.

She meanders past the shelves of textbooks and manuals and finds herself suddenly looking at rows of biographies. Hermione stops and runs her finger along the spines in front of her, looking across the volumes on Madeleine Albright and Jane Austen.

As her eyes slip over the spines, Hermione realizes what she is looking for. Without meaning to, she is searching for biographies of popular musicians from the last half century, books that might detail the history and inner workings of The Who or Fleetwood Mac. Books her father would enjoy. 

David Granger loved music, and he loved reading about his musical idols. He always said he didn’t have the rhythm or pitch to be of any use to the musical world himself, so the next best thing was to love and learn about it as best he could. 

In another time, another life, she would call her father over to the shelf and watch his eyes alight as he took in the volumes available. He would describe to her the importance and history of a band in such great detail she would wonder why he needed to read more about them at all. And then he would tell her which records in his collection they should listen to when they returned home, since it was only by listening to the artists’ creation that you really began to understand them.

Hermione’s heart puckers as she thinks of their sitting room in Hampstead Garden, the record player constantly echoing her father’s favorite albums, the coffee table laden with books profiling John Lennon or Elvis Presley or David Bowie. She walks along the shelf in front of her, homing in on spines that look familiar, copies of books that at one point in time might have sat in her house, been in the background of her life. 

She could find one of his favorite books here, she thinks. She could find one and take it from the shelf and sit down and read it and maybe then it would feel like she is back home, like he is simply in the next room and will soon return to see her curled up with a book he loves, exclaiming in delight and pulling up a seat so they can discuss it. 

But as soon as the thought arrives in her mind it bursts. As Hermione examines the books in front of her she realizes she doesn’t know exactly which books were her father’s favorites, or even exactly which ones he had read. 

Even if she is able to remember, her father will not be rejoining her in the sitting room anytime soon. Not unless she discovers a new thread to follow in her search, and discovers it soon. 

Swallowing hard, she turns from the biographies and walks back along the bookshelves in search of George. She realizes she has not seen or heard him since she drifted into the sea of her thoughts. The silence gnaws at her. 

She finds George two rows over, squatting down to read the titles on the bottom shelf, curiosity apparently getting the better of his melancholy. He looks up as she approaches, one hand reaching to pluck a book from its perch. Hermione bites back a smile.

“Have you read all these?” He gestures to the books in front of him.

“No.” Hermione shakes her head and laughs, glancing down to see the car manuals and history books before them. “Definitely not.” 

“Are you sure?” George holds up the book he has taken from the shelf, an enormous paperback entitled Understanding Manual Transmissions. “This seems like it’s your taste.” 

“How in the world is that my taste?” Hermione asks, shaking her head. “I haven’t the slightest interest in cars.” 

“Oh, is that what this is about?” George blinks at the book and shrugs as he returns it to the shelf. “I didn’t realize. I just saw a big, dusty book with loads of words I didn’t know and figured—” 

“Yes, yes, you figured it must be something I’d love then because I’m such a swot.” Hermione rolls her eyes. “Very funny.” 

George shrugs again and straightens, unfazed by the coolness in her voice. “So which books here have you read?” 

“From this area?” Hermione pauses and rotates on her heels, taking in the sea of bookshelves. “Probably none of them.” 

“What?” George stares at her, and Hermione cannot tell if he is joking or not. 

“We’re in a room full of books and you, Hermione Granger, are telling me that you haven’t read any of them?” 

“Yes,” she retorts. “That is precisely what I’m telling you.” 

George’s face slips into a mischievous smile. “It wasn’t until you got to school that you realized the beauty of books, was it? One step into a dark, dusty library, and you were changed forever?” 

“No, you absolute prat,” Hermione shakes her head. “I read before I got to school. But I didn’t read any books that would be up here,” she gestures to the shelves around them. “I read children’s books, storybooks.” 

“Where are those, then?” George looks around. 

Hermione chews on her lip. “Downstairs. The librarian said they’re downstairs.” 

“Alright.” George puts his hands in his pockets and starts towards the stairs. 

“Wait.” Hermione reaches out and takes him by the elbow. George turns, the smile slinking off his face and his eyebrows rising.  

Hermione pauses, catching her lower lip between her teeth. “We don’t have to look at them if you don’t want to,” she says at last. “Honestly I don’t—I don’t want to bore you. They’ll be dull to look at, just some fairy tales like The Tales of Beedle the Bard but for muggles.” 

George’s eyes flick across her face, his brows knitting together. “I’d like to see them,” he says. “I’ve never seen a book of muggle stories.”  He continues to appraise her, and Hermione bites the inside of her cheek. 

“Anyways,” George says, turning again towards the stairs, his gaze mercifully leaving her face. “I’m dead curious to know what the great Hermione Granger read as a child before getting to school.” 

At this, Hermione rolls her eyes again, the muscles in her cheeks relaxing as she follows him towards the stairs. “You’re unbearable sometimes, you know.” 

George pauses at the top of the stairs, one hand on the railing as he looks over his shoulder at her. “I’m just trying to figure you out, Granger.  You’re annoyingly impenetrable sometimes.”  

Hermione feels her cheeks warm at this and doesn’t respond, brushing past George down the stairs with a rather haughty toss of her head. She hears him snort behind her, footsteps landing heavily on each step.

When Hermione reaches the bottom of the staircase, the familiar ambiance of a children’s library envelops her like a beloved blanket. She pauses, taking in the low-ceilinged room with its brightly painted walls, plastic bookshelves piled with titles, games, and beanbag chairs and small tables littering the carpeted floor. 

“Wow,” George mutters behind her. “They really go all out here.” 

“It’s lovely,” Hermione breathes. She takes a step into the space and looks around. “It reminds me of the library at home.” 

“It looked like this?” George steps beside her and bends to examine a series of picture books propped up on top of a shelf. 

“It was a bit different.” Hermione bites her lip again as she studies the room. “The children’s section at our local library was smaller. There probably weren’t quite so many books or games. But—” she swallows, thinking back to her beloved Hampstead Garden library where she would spend hours sitting with her parents. “It feels the same. Warm, and safe, and—and like you could just curl up and spend the whole day here and everything would be all right.” 

She stops and closes her mouth with a snap, looking down at the floor. She has said too much, shown too much.

“Which of these books have you read, then?” George asks, picking up one of the picture books and holding it out to her. “Did you read this one?” 

Hermione glances at the book and shakes her head. “No, that must be newer. Most of the books I remember clearly will be chapter books for older children.” She stands on her toes and scans the room, pointing to a tall shelf filled with thicker books. “Over there.” 

She trots to the shelf, not bothering to look if George follows or not. As she approaches she sees a display of glossy paperback books on a table, their titles familiar. Hermione stops and snatches the first one. 

“Oh my goodness,” she breathes, eyes raking over the cover. She flips the book open and reads the first page, her breath curdling in her throat. 

“What is it?” George demands, leaning over her shoulder to get a better view of the page. Hermione can feel his breath tickling the tip of her ear. 

“The Chronicles of Narnia,” Hermione says, flipping the book closed again so he can see the cover. “I used to—these were my favorites when I was younger. I forgot—” the words stick in her throat and she swallows. “I’d forgotten about these.” 

“What is it about?” 

Hermione rotates the book in her hand, trying to organize her thoughts. Her mind feels as though it has been swept up in a tornado, and she feels almost dizzy from the onslaught. Long-forgotten images burst through the seams of her memory: the weight of a crocheted blanket tucked under her legs as she settles on the sofa, the brittle dog-eared pages of her mother’s well-loved copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and the smell of her Miranda Granger’s favorite chamomile tea. 

“It’s about four children,” she says, opening the book again and gently flicking her finger across the pages. Even the smell emanating from the crisp paper seems familiar, though she knows that can’t possibly be true. Still, she closes her eyes and takes a breath. 

“There’s four children,” she starts again. “And they go to live in a big manor house during a war. While they’re there they find a wardrobe that transports them to a world completely unlike their own, where there’s magic and talking animals and creatures they had never seen before.” She stops and bites her lip, glancing up to find George looking at her with a curious, soft expression. Hermione looks back at the book and swallows again, thinking if she doesn’t keep talking she will surely cry. 

“There’s seven books altogether,” she continues. “My mum read them when she was a girl and always said they were her favorite books growing up. She started reading them to me when I was ten. Before I got my letter and went away to school.”

She takes a shaky breath and runs the pad of her thumb over the pages, letting the paper flick away from her. A thought pops into her head that she can crack the book open somehow and find more memories and pieces of her childhood hidden somewhere in the printed words. She ghosts a finger across a page and imagines, just for a second, that she can coax from it more images of her mother, more moments from her muggle life. 

Beside her, George fidgets and clears his throat. “So—what happens, then?” he asks. “In the story? What happens when they get to the magical world?” 

“Oh, there’s an evil witch that they defeat, and magical wars they have to fight.” She peers over her shoulder and gives him a small, tight smile. “Nothing like real life.” 

George gives a short laugh and reaches over her shoulder, plucking the book from her hands. “And there’s seven of these?” he asks, running a finger down the title page as he scans it. 

Hermione nods. 

“Is this your favorite of the lot?” George holds up The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. 

“I suppose.” Hermione swallows and gives a jerky shrug. George raises an eyebrow, silently prodding her for an explanation. 

“We never finished the series,” she says. “Mum and I got through the first three books together. But then my letter came, and I had an entirely new world to learn about before I went to school, and—” her voice drifts off, and she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. 

“We kind of forgot about it. All of us, me, Mum, and Dad, were so surprised when Professor McGonagall turned up at the house and told us what—what I was. And there was so much to learn. We didn’t know anything. We thought we’d come back to it,” she gestures towards the book. “But then—I don’t know. I suppose we just never did.” 

It is a partial truth, a half truth, but Hermione does not add more. She bites the inside of her cheek and looks down, feeling her cheeks flame. 

George’s eyes slide down her face with an expression so close to sympathy that Hermione clenches her teeth together. 

She will not be pitied, so she will not tell him more. 

She will not tell him how her mother had promised they would finish the series together when Hermione returned from her first year of school. It would be something fun for them to look forward to, Miranda Granger had told her daughter. It would make all those months of separation go by faster. 

She will not tell him that when she returned home after her first year, having learned all sorts of things her parents didn’t understand and which she couldn’t show them, having stood by her friend while he looked death in the eye, something had changed. The idea of finishing the series with her mother had fallen away, and neither mother nor daughter returned to it. 

They never said anything, but Hermione knew her parents had seen her change, had felt her pull away a little more year after year when she returned to them. Perhaps they spent the months she was away quietly preparing for it. Such a shift was inevitable. They had sent their little girl off to a world where they could not follow her, and each time she returned the gulf between them grew a little wider. 

Hermione smooths her hair and forces her face into a neutral expression. She will not cry, and she will not say more, no matter how gently George watches her. She has not told this story to anybody, and she is not going to tell it now to George Weasley just because he has asked. 

Her eyes drift to the book in George’s hand, the glossy cover markedly different from the ragged cloth-covered book her mother had read from years ago. Hermione swallows the memories and the bile creeping up her throat. She must be strong. She must continue moving forward. It does not help her mission to dwell on the past, and on things she cannot change. 

Realizing Hermione does not intend to continue talking, George sets the book back on the shelf and gestures around the space. “So, where to next? I want to know all about what young Hermione did at the public library.” 

Hermione takes a breath and nods, letting herself slip back into character. “We can look at some of the picture books if you’d like,” she says. “They might be a bit more your taste.” 

“Harsh, Granger,” George replies with an exaggerated look of hurt. “I thought we’ve established that my reading exceeds your expectations?” 

Hermione shrugs, turning away from the shelf and marching back to the area by the stairs. “We have,” she says over her shoulder. “But you haven’t quite convinced me that you don’t prefer books with pictures.” 

“Everyone prefers books with pictures, Granger.” 

Hermione stops in front of a large notice board near the stairs, eyes skimming the list of readings and family events hosted by the library. George comes to pause behind her. 

“Did your family do events like these as well, then?” he asks. 

Hermione nods. “Mum and Dad love the library,” she says, mouth curling into a small smile at the thought. “They go all the time. Mum always said she didn’t think she’d be able to live in a place that didn’t have a good library for her to visit.” 

As she says this, Hermione straightens and whips around. “George, that’s it!” she hisses, smacking him in the arm. 

“Ow, what?” 

“We’ve been looking in the wrong place!” Hermione runs a hand over her hair, bouncing on the balls of her feet as the realization fully absorbs in her mind. “Oh, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before!” 

“Granger, I need you to explain to me what you’re talking about.” George’s forehead wrinkles. “Preferably nice and slow.” 

“Mum and Dad love the library,” Hermione says, fighting to keep her voice low. “I know—I know—that no matter where they went the first thing they would do is get a library card.” 

George raises an eyebrow. “Okay. And how does that help us?” 

“Libraries have records of all their patrons, along with their addresses,” she explains. “They have to know who all can borrow books.” 

George’s face clears. “So we’ll just be able to look at a list to know whether or not they’re here.” 

“Exactly!” Hermione nods quickly. “It’ll be much quicker to look through a list of library users to figure out if they’re here or not. Oh, I could sing!” 

“So we just need to get the list of all the people who use the library here?” George asks, his own face cracking a small smile as Hermione beams. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.” 

“We’ll need to figure out the best way to do it,” Hermione says half to herself. “There’s probably some sort of privacy requirement, I doubt they’ll just give it to us. But we can figure it out.” 

She straightens, face bright. “Alright. You go back upstairs and find a place for us to work. We’ll need to figure out a plan. I’ll be there in a minute.” 

George frowns at her. “Where are you going, then?” 

“I’ll be right there,” Hermione says quickly. “I just need to grab something.” 

George looks like he wants to argue, but then simply shrugs and begins up the stairs. Hermione watches his retreating back until she is sure he won’t turn around. 

She takes a hurried step backwards and walks to the tall bookshelf on the other side of the room, looking over her shoulder to ensure she is alone. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe sits on the shelf where George had left it. 

Without giving herself time to think or second guess, Hermione scoops the book up from the shelf. She turns it over in her hands, letting her fingers run through the pages one more time. Then, chest tight, she opens her knapsack and stuffs the book inside.